HANDSHAKE WORKSHOPS
—YOURSELF AND MORE—
DISRUPT YOUR LIFE. Handshake is not only a world-renowned, award-winning series of lectures, workshops and colloquiums, nor is it merely an invigorating journey into the Marin Headlands. Handshake is a journey that equips you with exciting new conceptualizations and help you find deeper meaning in life which will enhance your personal effectiveness manifold.
HONESTY. PASSION. VISION. 93% percent of all Handshake graduates, from top executives to small business entrepreneurs, from big-wave surfers to golfers, from parents to painters, have indicated that their lives have been substantively revolutionized by Handshake’s award-winning flagship educational offering, the Perch Program.
YOU WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE . . . AND THE WORLD!
Cory fanned herself with the brochure, errors and all. In front of her, two men—two guys in hoodies and cargo shorts—sat splay-crotched. “Still in stealth mode working on rollout strategy,” said the guy on the left, in a Giants cap. The back of his neck sported that line of wispy hairs you usually found under a navel. “Invite-only beta. Gotta roll out the front-end and monetization, do a bit of dogfood, then UX with the unwashed before we demo at South By.”
“Monetization-wise definitely freemium’s the model for SaaS,” replied the cropped-haired Indian guy. “And gamified coin bundles and badges and shit. Gamification plus freemium equals user acquisition.”
“Dank. Can I post that? You want attrib, bro?”
That way he said bro with an ironic dip only made Cory loathe him in a different way. She used to think the language of power was just a substitution cipher of shibboleths. But it was more like an insect language: dense pheromone clouds communicating fear and attraction, hunger and envy, have and not.
The lights flickered. Cory turned and counted about a hundred some-odd people, some odd. A wiry man in a seersucker dress shirt and gray slacks with a worryingly conservative part in his brown hair, a sort of human wingtip, took the stage with a microphone. The house lights dimmed and the projection screen behind him displayed a large white arrow pointing downward.
“That arrow’s the most important part of my discussion today,” Perch said, his voice issuing from the speakers, a baritone bounce that Cory associated with gay Southern men. “Anyone know why?” He walked toward the arrow, then stood under it. Laughter crescendoed unevenly as people got the joke at different speeds. Cory jogged her legs, worrying about blood clots.
“My name is Evan Perch. I founded the Handshake Workshops in 1990, and today we’ve got branches in Shanghai, Tel Aviv, Busan, Oslo, Buenos Aires, Bangalore, and thirty other major cities. Our staff is seventy percent volunteer, which shows you our commitment to helping people reach their potential—we’re here because we’re passionate.
“People say America doesn’t make things anymore. Handshake makes a special kind of person—we make makers. We make thought leaders and entrepreneurs, people who represent the best of the human condition: the crazy dreamers who look around and say, ‘I can make this better.’ That’s the attitude that discovered continents, brought equality for all Americans, and is catapulting us into the new millennium with dazzling technologies.
“Now, unlike business development seminars that only focus on the Ps and Qs of organizational theory, Handshake recognizes the deeper truth: that your business develops only when you do. Our mission is to catalyze mass change through personal transformation.”
From the back of the room came a sound like a shopping cart hitting a chain link fence. Cory’s bike had toppled, and its upended wheel spun, embarrassed against momentum. Unperturbed, Perch moved his hand to his pocket and clicked to the next slide, which read Instrumentality.
“As any Handshake graduate will tell you, it’s impossible to describe how we work; you gotta try it yourself. But generally, Handshake is a program that gives you the skill set to form revolutionary insights. And I mean ‘program’ literally—we’ve iterated our ideas into ‘mental apps’ anyone can apply to achieve breakthroughs. Extraordinariness is innate, but it takes a special mind-set to access. Whether you call it prayer, meditation, flow, or the zone, it’s all about active self-realization.
“Collectively we call our apps ‘the Instrumentality.’ They draw on millennia of open-source thought: Moses, Jesus, Muhammad, Siddhartha, Confucius, Seneca, Jung, Reich, SRI International, Gandhi, Csikszentmihalyi, and Gladwell, combined with bleeding-edge cognitive-behavioral methodologies and neurobiological findings. Ancient ideas, modern messaging. The Instrumentality.”
The slideshow advanced: Ideas. Cory’s stomach revved, and she slouched to muffle it while Perch cranked his rotator cuff. “But not all old ideas are good. We also dismantle obsolete cultural notions. Let’s start with one that drives me bonkers: the myth of modesty. I tell you, modesty—it’s what we call a sham, it’s fear of greatness. To paraphrase Shakespeare: conscience makes cowards of us all. But these days, America frowns on the bold. People who’re just too damn honest.
“So here’s the first app: You’re always someone’s jerk. People will resent you for being more open than they let themselves be. But you don’t need the nitpickers and the critics. Anyone who’s not on the bandwagon is dragging it down.”
Cory grieved for his metaphor.
“Now, I could go on about our method, but like I said, you gotta do it. So let’s get one of you up here.” Perch surveyed the room, shading his eyes unnecessarily against the fluorescent light. His pointing finger oscillated twice over the audience, passing over wiggling arms before settling unmistakably on Cory. “The young lady in the blue shift. What’s your name, hon?”
Clapping her notebook shut, Cory said, “Linda Troland.”
“Linda, c’mon up here.”
He indicated a microphone stand onstage, in front of the left chalkboard. Cory went up, unsure whether to grasp the mic or stand in front of it. Her face needed a wipe; her thyroid pleaded for a sandwich, a glass of soy milk, a bong rip, anything to cushion this.
“How do you spend your time, Linda?”
When she spoke, her microphone sounded quieter than Perch’s. “I run an organization that throws fundraising events for progressive causes.”
Perch wrote fundraising on the chalkboard. “Gosh, a young thing like you, managing a company.”
“Well, I’m partly here to learn how to manage it.”
“Ain’t you lucky then! In the last year alone, the Instrumentality has helped hundreds of entrepreneurs, including C-level executives from HP, Genentech, Nvidia, who’ve found lots of success with our advanced insistence-training programs.”
“But my organization is, you know,” Cory said, “anticorporate. We want to change the system.”
“I believe we do offer a radical approach to personal change.”
“Well, I mean,” Cory said, reeling her hands in front of her, “you can improve and fulfill yourself forever without doing anything socially useful. That’s the problem. Being comfortable, gathering neat objects and experiences for your little team. That myopia about suffering which’s just gotten worse since the globalized—”
“Whoa, back up! What I’m sensing, Linda, is not a management problem.” Perch walked to a chalkboard. “What’s our most lethal modern sickness? Cancer? You can beat it, like my wife did. Heart disease? Diet, exercise, and baby aspirin. No, the answer is cynicism.” He appeared to relish the time it took to write out cynicism. “It’s terminal. Depression, boredom, anger, and apathy are all symptoms of cynicism. And I gotta say, dismissing personal change is classic cynicism.” He pivoted. “I bet you’re all sick of it. You’re sick of doubting whether success is achievable, whether your dreams are worth the effort, sick of people nitpicking your dreams into dust. You’re sick of people not caring. That sound right, Linda?”
Cory tilted her head. “I’m not sure what this has to do with my company?”
“Forget your company. I want to know your business. Is it fair to say you’re skeptical
about us? Got a few nitpicks of your own?”
“That’s valid.”
“Tell me why, hon.”
Cory investigated Perch’s shiny face for tone cues, but only saw an anticipatory niceness. “Well, to start with, you make entrepreneurs out to be these heroic, special white knights, when it’s a fact that lots of them go on to evade taxes, buy politicians and draft legislation, plunder and dismantle public resources, and trash the environment, with zero accountability, all to enrich themselves and their shareholders.”
“Linda, our core belief is that people are decent, but sometimes misguided. Seeing anybody as fundamentally evil, well, that’s a cynical sham. I know I’m repeating myself, but we’ve only covered one app out of over a hundred that we’ll install on the platform of You.” As if on cue, he advanced the slide to read You Are a Platform and interrupted Cory’s reply with an anapestic throat-clear, continuing: “Though our methods aren’t for everybody.”
“But you said anyone would get a breakthrough.”
“Anyone who’s willing. Some people love their convenient shams a little too much. You can’t learn anything if you already ‘know everything,’ isn’t that right? You gotta see the ulterior motives behind the arguing. Linda, keep the comments coming. I love your passion.”
“Right now I’m also curious why you keep repeating certain terms”—Cory made twitching bunny ears of her fingers—“‘instrumentality, sham, nitpick, cynicism.’ If Handshake is about individuality, why use this preset vocab? It feels ideological.”
“Tools aren’t ideological, Linda. You use them however you want. Some technologies are made from steel or silicon; our apps are made from words and ideas, distilled and honed to a razor’s edge. No point making a wheel less round.”
“What about tire treads?”
“Classic nitpicking! More toxic cynicism.”
Cory twisted the microphone from its stand. “You might be conflating cynicism with critical thought.”
“Ah, ‘critical thought.’ Well, that sure sounds smart. Must be only stupid people are happy and only the greedy succeed, right? Y’all, I’m grateful, because Linda’s giving us an A-number-one opportunity to test-drive the Instrumentality. What’s going on in that superbrain of yours, Linda? Trying to think of another reason why you’re right and I’m wrong?”
With sweaty, shaking hands, Cory wrung her microphone like a pepper mill. “There’s no ulterior motive. I just can’t debate someone who evades my questions.”
A few sinuses in the audience crooned disapproval. Perch switched his mic to his left hand and quelled the air with his right. “Because you’re asking the wrong questions. You want me to ‘prove’ Handshake works. If I describe a hot fudge sundae, does that ‘prove’ it’s tasty? You gotta try it. But if you can’t change your mind, you ain’t changing nothing.”
Dehydration and hunger tingled in Cory’s gums, making it difficult to dismantle Perch’s reductive sloganeering, which relieved pain by amputating the intellectual appendages that felt it—yet which also seemed effective in motivating people. It smelled of remedial introspection, of another straight white patriarch using half-assed pseudoscience to tell her what reality was. Right now some decimating factoid would put Perch in his place, but all she could summon forth was a bulge of author names and annoyance. To adequately parse his bullshit she’d need three weeks to write a twenty-page paper. Her head felt thin and permeable as a salamander. “All you’re doing is putting me down.”
“Pardon my fronsay, but sometimes we’ve got to fuck with you, so you can see yourself. You’re used to breaking things apart with the hammer of your wits; we’re offering you a sackful of nails. Now, show of hands. Who thinks Linda here is holding something back?” Many hands went up. “Who thinks she’s terrified of being wrong?” Hands remained up. “Already everyone sees it. Why’s that? Are you afraid if you stop criticizing for one second, you’ll have to change? Worried people’ll ask questions about you instead? Like: Has nitpicking ever made Linda happy? Or is she just armoring her vulnerabilities with smartypants excuses? Even that defensive way you’re wrapping your arm around you. Sham’s just shame minus the E.”
Cory held her arm in place, though now it yearned painfully to straighten. The stickiness of her dry mouth crackled in the speakers. “You’re just deflecting my questions with ad hominem assertions.”
“Linda here’s a first-rate shammer, brain like a hammer, nobody gonna scam ’er! Listen, to be honest, I’ve got no idea what ‘ad hominem’ means, but it sounds awful smart.”
“It means you’re attacking my character instead of—”
“Couldn’t wait to define it for me, could she, folks?” Perch said, putting up a let-me-finish. “Linda, I hear what you’re saying. You make damn sure of that. But we want to hear what you’re not saying.”
“Uh . . .”
“We’re offering help. But if you’re going to be cynical and nitpicky and lazy and make excuses, you’ll never break through. It’s why your business is in the toilet. Why you’re always arguing. Why your relationships fizzle out. Am I wrong about any of that?”
Cory’s vision tunneled to enclose Perch’s face and his hand holding his microphone at necktie level. She watched his mouth minutely for the flick of a forked tongue.
Perch continued, “If I’m wrong, and you’re not holding anything back, steak dinner’s on me. Now don’t poke holes in this question, answer it. What are you lying about?”
“There’s no way to answer that. And to be honest, this intense hectoring is starting to feel like a cult initiation.”
“You just can’t resist!” Perch said through a pummeling smile. “Always throwing out wild defenses when your back’s to the wall. Because you’re ‘uncomfortable.’ Because honesty would transform your life, and that terrifies you. Can you swear that there’s nothing you’re lying about?” Perch showed her an almost-pinch. “Are you too damn proud to give this much? This tiny bit?”
What a cheap debating tactic. She’d seem pigheaded if she conceded nothing, and silence would implicate her. The audience strained to make eye contact with her. “Fine, I’ll bite, but only to give an example of—”
“Let’s hear it.”
“So, it’s a long story. My name isn’t really Linda. But the reason I did that is so—”
Cory was drowned out by the audience’s gullish uproar. She sucked in her lower lip, which was starting to blubber. Perch slapped his chest and hooted. “Wow. Wow. What is your name, then?”
“Cory Rosen.”
“Cory, your journey’s just begun. Will you continue your education with us?”
“I think my dad, uh, already signed me up.”
“Well, sheee-it! See, folks, all you need is one person in your life who’s committed to your success. You’ve taken a huge step. Everyone, give it up for Cory.”
As Cory left the stage, a volunteer intercepted her to take the microphone she’d forgotten to let go of. She headed back to her seat and was too dizzy to follow the rest of the lecture. The urge to chew and gobble was coming over her. She sucked on a sour section of hair.
“Now, everyone, here’s the pitch. This month we’ve knocked down the weekend seminar to four hundred and ninety-nine dollars. That’s still a chunk, I know, but this ain’t no vacation. Take this opportunity. Don’t let this be another sooner-or-later. Register now.
“Once you’re squared away, I’d like you to head over to that next room. We’ve got refreshments, and some of our graduates have set up booths for their own specialized courses you can also sign up for. Okay, everybody, thanks for listening. I wish you all remarkable deeds.”
Cory clapped with palms stiffened to produce movement but no sound. She returned her notebook to her messenger bag, and as people stood, someone patted her on the back. The jet stream of bodies buffeted her into the other room, circlets of sweat collecting at everyone’s hairlines. The crowd slowed to a saunter between four long blue-dust-ruffled tables, whose signs she rea
d as she headed to the refreshments across the room:
Blanche LaPintro, Nov. 9: LATE? GREAT!: Supercharge Your Commute
Ellen Stokes, Nov. 12: YOU CONTAIN MONOPOLIES: How Wond.er Leveraged and Monetized a Personal Brand
Bill Lazzard and Cat Hu, Nov. 13: THE 18-HOUR ORGASM: Passionate Parturition
Talim Cook and Chester Leary, Nov. 13: WEB YOU.0: Agile Workflows and Playflows
Hattie Dement, Nov. 14: BREATHE INPUT, BREATHE OUTPUT: Codejamming for Yogis
Queeny Hartillo, Nov. 15: PRACTICUM ON BODYSTORMING: Shuffling Your Creative Deck
Emerging on the other side, Cory queued up at the refreshments table, flexing her jaws. Hors d’oeuvres went tray-to-mouth: she began at the platter of deep-fried puff pastries, chased them with a plastic flute of sparkling cider before falling upon the croquettes, each topped with a little quiff of sour cream and crusted with smoky brown flecks; muffling a belch, she sampled the adorable peanut-butter-fudge mini-cupcakes. Then she re-upped on croquettes, with another flute of cider to cool her stomach.
Unease kicked in instantly: the suspicion that everyone who’d seen her humiliated was now watching her pig out. And the food, through the eyes of remorse, was pretty much solid fat and sugar. It was delicious, which was bad because vegetarian food had to be really unhealthy to taste delicious. Wait—was it vegetarian? Fuckin’ A! The brown flecks could’ve been bacon—or some frightened veal calf with shattered legs trembling against its steel peg and collar, baying through snipped vocal cords. She felt pale. I’m sorry, piggy, I’m so so sorry, she thought, ashamed at her childishness, then appalled that she could consider her own earnest moral sentiments childish.
The savory grease clung at the back of her tongue and perfused her sinuses. She made for the bathroom and rinsed her mouth with hot water, but more grease delectated up from her throat, so she squirted a blob of pink hand soap from the dispenser and swallowed it. Now she was full of cloying petropuke and cannibalized flesh. She turned to enter a stall, lowered to her knees, and made the familiar pattern of motions, hair pushed back and three fingers snaked into her mouth, repeating nothing in her head as she sang out her stomach. As it splashed and clouded out below her, she remembered how virtuous and light it felt to have done this. Though not while you did it. Then you were alone and it always hurt.
Private Citizens: A Novel Page 13
